Ever fallen In Love?

It’s one of the first things I do when I get home. So easy to find on Youtube. I click play, and lean back, watching Pete Shelley, remembering. I can’t believe it’s been thirty years since then.

It was just a song we liked at the time – played it over and over - but now I really listen to the lyrics and although it’s not cold, they make me shiver.

I close my eyes and I can see those little cards he used to send me. The letters cut out of newsprint, like in a ransom letter, some big, some small, scattered on Day-Glo coloured card, spelling I love you

In one of the envelopes, there’s a little gold C on a chain – our shared initial. Kate Bush gave it to him as a thank you, and then he gave it to me.

Space dust exploding on my tongue. We did space dust kisses too – it was brand new then - laughing at how strange it felt. We drop some tuinal and then play suicide chicken on the busy road outside his flat because we absolutely have to get more of it from the sweetshop.

In the recording studio, I’m flicking switches, watching his expression of alarm as I say, smiling, finger poised “what does this one do?” He puts his hands up to his face in mock terror, but I can see he thinks it’s funny, until I actually do it.

And then quite soon it went flat, as things like that so often do when you’re eighteen – and as I so often did when I was bored – far more often that I ought to have done – well - I wasn’t a nice person then.

He’s standing there, in his leather jacket, and ripped jeans – real rips, not pretend ones like we have today. His face is slightly red, and his eyes are dull. He looks at me;

“You sound like a bank manager”

I watch his mouth as he forms the words – I try to look interested, but I’m not. I just want it to finish – I want to get up and go off and get on with the rest of my life. He looks at me again and I sigh because I can’t see the point in carrying on the discussion.

“Do you want me to pretend then?”

“No”

I try to explain – make it better

“It’s just – I’ve been thinking about it for so long – maybe that’s why I sound cold?”

I know it’s not the real reason – the real reason is that I am cold. It’s over and I want to go.

He looks down. I pick up my bag

“I’m sorry – really I am “

I try so hard to be sorry. I think of all the nice things we did, but it’s no good. At least I’m not pretending – or maybe it would be better of I did? Kinder? I am not very kind.

There’s no reply, and I leave, quietly shutting the door behind me, as if it somehow makes a difference – as if I haven’t already disturbed him enough.

I cross the busy road – carefully this time, without giggling. All I feel is relief that it’s done – a stone lighter. I am so glad it’s over – and I jump on the bus just as it’s leaving – and he’s out of my life. That’s it.

Except it isn’t

One day, when I’m older and a little bit nicer than I used to be, I’m in Hampstead, and I’m going to see Zachy at the Everyman where he’s working, except first I pop into Louis’ Patisserie. Perhaps the film is still on? I take my coffee and I go to sit down, and there’s this large woman sitting on the next table – she’s on her own and she’s looking at me – staring, not smiling, and I think what the fuck? It must be a mistake – she must be confusing me with someone else. I’ll clear it up – so I go over, smiling politely to disarm her, and I say

“I’m sorry do I know you?”

And she looks at me and suddenly she seems tired – worn out. The skin on her face looks as if it’s meant to be florid, but it’s grey instead, and she says;

“I’m Chris’ mother”

At first I don’t know what she’s on about, although her face begins to ring a bell

“Chris?”

Then she tells me his nickname and suddenly I know who she is, so I say hello, and I explain I don’t live in England anymore – I’m just visiting –and I ask how he is.

“I haven’t seen him for ages!” I say breezily

She looks at me as if she’s going to cry, or hit me, and says he’s getting better now. I don’t understand.

“How d’you mean?”

She gives me this odd look – then she tells me he’s ok now – on the road to recovery – but he’s been a smack addict for years – tried to kill himself once too. Then she pauses for a minute, looking at me

“It was after you left.”

“Oh god I had no idea!”

I stumble over my apology. It meant so little to me. Such a little thing. I hadn’t thought of him once since then

She seems amazed that I didn’t know. I can’t think what to say.

“He’s better now?”

“He’s getting there”

I tell her how glad I am, and now she doesn’t look like she hates me so much. I ask her to say hello from me, but I feel a fake because I haven’t thought of him once all these years – and then I have to go – Zachy is waiting for me and I’m looking forward to seeing him. It takes me all of five minutes to forget about him again. I suppose I’m still not all that nice a person.

I’m so much older now, how did I ever get to be fifty? I try hard to be nice. I hope I’m kinder. Zachy says I am.

I’m laughing, in a pub in Soho. We have to be quiet for a while, because we’re meant to be listening to people read, but when they finish we stay talking and talking, and I don’t know why the subject comes up – I think we’re talking about dead friends – we seem to have so many of them. And Zach tells me that boy is dead too - he never made it to thirty.

I remind Zach that I used to go out with him – he’d forgotten, and then we change the subject, but I store it away, and when I get home, it’s one of the first things I do - go to Youtube, and find that song – it’s easy – and then I click play, and I sit back, and listen.